


Closer

by zade



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Cigarettes, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Marijuana, POV Second Person, Racial/Ethnic slurs, Timeline What Timeline, mid season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:04:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lynda may suspect you think Roman wakes up early to hang the sun, but you know better.  Why wake up early when he could just pay someone to do it for him.</p><p>There is no doubt in your mind, however, that Roman is directly involved with making the sun rise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Quick warning for racial/ethnic slurs that are consistent with what is seen on the show. 
> 
> The phrase "av akai" was found in several English/Romani dictionaries I found online, and I am trusting the definition I found there. Apologies if it is not correct.
> 
> Thanks to Andy for the beta.

Roman shows up at your door with a bloody nose. You’re not sure if it’s from his freaky _upyr_ mind powers or his coke habit, and you’re not sure which you’d prefer. You hate that he uses his powers on anyone he ever meet’s like minds are his birthright (or maybe it’s that he uses you like you belong to him) but you also hate how blank coke makes his eyes, his expression, how he looks at you like he’s looking through you.

You hate how he makes you feel, how you want nothing more than for him to just see you.

“Can I come in?” he asks, but he’s already stepped through your door, into your domain.

“Anything for a Godfrey.” You don’t say, “Everything for a Godfrey,” but you mean it, and you’re sure he can hear it. Lynda may suspect you think Roman wakes up early to hang the sun, but you know better. Why wake up early when he could just pay someone to do it for him. 

There is no doubt in your mind, however, that Roman is directly involved with making the sun rise.

You laugh, and he smiles, pink pouty lips on display like an invitation—one you’re not sure you can resist. He flops down on your couch and wipes the blood off on his hand. You drop a paper napkin on his lap and sit down next to him.

He dabs at his nose, daintily. He is ever the aristocrat, but also a rude shit, so you are not surprised when he doesn’t thank you. You don’t mind.

“How’d you get that?”

“How do you think?” He pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear, holds it out you like it’s a privilege to light him up. You do it anyway, pulling a book of matches out of your pocket and lighting his cigarette. You steal the first drag and he shoves you, laughing, pink lips spread wide and eyes bright. “Fucking gyp!”

He takes a long pull, staring at you all the while, like he’s going to devour you whole, like a hurricane, sucking up and mowing down everything in his path.

So, not coke, then.

“Fuck you,” you say to him, smiling in spite of yourself, and stand up, going over to Lynda’s things and rummaging for a joint. You find one, fat and rolled tight, in an old cigar box with some dried flowers and twenty or so Euros. You waggle it at him, and tilt your head in the direction of your room.

He stands like it’s a chore, heaving himself up with a dramatic sigh, but his eyes are glittering and he raises an eyebrow at you. “Lead the way, wolf-boy.”

“Eat me, Godfrey.” You push your door open and throw yourself onto the bed.

He stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray and saunters in, hips swaying back and forth, lanky limbs moving fluidly, but lazily. His feet might not touch the floor. You’re not exactly sure the extent of an _upyr_ ’s powers. He pauses in your doorway and leans up against it, shoulders hunched but looking eight feet tall.

“Tell me how to say something in your language,” he says, apropos of nothing. Everything for Roman Godfrey.

You smirk and howl for him, lighting up the joint with another match. You take a deep hit and hold it out to him. An invitation.

He scowls and rolls his eyes. “No, you fucking moron, the language of your people. Gypsy language.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t take the joint. You’ve only just begun toking but the room feels hot and heavy.

“Romani,” you tell him.

“Romani, then,” he parrots back, and rolls his eyes again.

“What do you want me to say?” Another long drag, pulling the smoke into your lungs. You imagine it like a cloud, spreading through your veins like vapor, suffusing into your body until you too dissolve into the air. You wonder where Lynda got this shit from.

“Anything,” he says, and runs his thumb over his chin nervously. He looks iconic, like a photograph out of an earlier decade. He is unique, statuesque almost, body comprised of sharp angles but moves so smooth you find it easy to believe that gravity might not apply to him.

You wouldn’t call him Adonis-like, unless Adonis was Greek for strung out. He isn’t beautiful, really, except in the way boys are beautiful because of the men they will someday become. Roman could be made of marble for his fair skin and hard face, but if the touch of your lips could warm him, you would gladly kiss his flesh until he burned like the sun.

“ _Av akai,_ ” you say after a moment. The tongue of kin comes easily to your lips, flows effortlessly between your teeth. Roman is standing four feet away, but it might as well be miles. Come here, you call, siren-like, and hope that he will come to you (and that his vessel will not be smashed upon the rocks).

“Ob akee?” Roman repeats, unsure, and steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “What does it mean?”

“Come here.” You gesture with the joint and he comes forward, falls onto the bed next to you. He takes a shallow hit, blows the smoke back into your face, still fresh and poignant. You breathe deep the smoke from his mouth and hold the joint out for him to take a hit for himself.  
“What does it mean?” he asks again. His face is so close to yours that you can feel the warm of his breath upon your lips, see the trails of red winding through the whites of his eyes.

“Come here.” You swallow and you watch him track the movement with his eyes. “ _Av akai_ , Roman.”

His eyes widen when he gets it. He looks almost crazed, but he comes to you and his lips find yours. His palm cradles your chin gently but his lips are hard against yours, his kiss all teeth and wicked tongue and unclear intentions. He kisses you like he is fucking you, thrusting into you and you take it because Roman is everything you know you shouldn’t want.

He pulls away and your eyes open. His are half-closed and his lips curve into a gentler smile than you could have pictured on him with any sort of ease. He says, “Aw, shiiit,” and you laugh and he leans back in to kiss you again.

“You’re amazing,” he says when you finally pull away, like it’s a revelation. His eyes are shining again, fixed on you like you’re a lighthouse and he is lost at sea. “Ever since I saw you transform—I mean, Peter, it was awesome. Literally, awe-inspiring.”

“Roman,” you say. “Shut the fuck up.”

He reaches at out and smacks your head, then retrieves the joint from between your fingers where you had forgotten it. He takes a deep drag, and then another. “ _Av akai_ ,” he says, and he almost has it down. He leans into you again lips parted, eyes closing, like something out of a wet dream or a punk rock porno.

“Anything for a Godfrey,” you say. He smiles and leans into you, slowly, kisses you this time like he’s molasses, sweet and slow and thick. You fall asleep with him next to you, throat dry with weed, lips tingling with the memory of his kiss. You aren’t sad or surprised to find him gone when you wake.

He has to wake up early, you suppose, you hang the sun.


End file.
